Correspondence
by southernbelle08
Summary: COMPLETE! Tonks and Remus keep in touch when Remus is sent on a mission. Here's the record of their correspondence as their relationship evolves with a surprise ending in store. R&R, s'il-vous plait!
1. Tonks: March 7

**A/N:** Ok this is the correspondence between Tonks and Remus while Dumbledore sends Remus on a mission to stake out the Malfoy mansion. I guess he's camping in the woods or something; we'll figure that out later. Time period is OotP or something - not terribly vital - just note that their friendship has yet to progress into something more. Although I don't show the first letter in the exchange, I plan to make each chapter alternate writers, so we'll see Remus' POV, too. Keep a lookout because it shouldn't take me too long to update. And review! I'm always in search of ways to make my writing better. Spanx.

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7 March

Remus—

A most splendiferous idea, I must say. Keeping correspondence is indeed the most efficacious mechanism for sustaining friendship in the event that

Ah, screw it. I'm trying (for no apparent reason whatsoever) to sound like a philosopher and failing miserably. But you do have your point – we have to do _something_ to compensate for all the conversations over cocoa we're going to miss. Your little – big, I guess, being two months long and all – stakeout of the Malfoy place better produce something worthwhile, or else I shall be supremely miffed for being unnecessarily denied my cocoa consuming companion. Anyway, Dung told me they keep an albino emu on their property, so at least you can confirm that for me while you're camping out there. An albino emu...

Oh and I got Sirius especially drunk the other night and inveigled (FANCY WORD!) him into leaking your jealously guarded middle name. What's the matter with John? Admittedly, it is rather random to be tacked on to a name like Remus, but whatever. Can I call you Jack now? And anyway, why is Jack a nickname for John, anyway? They're both four letters long. Anyway, I'm going to start calling you that whether you like it or not. If you do like it, so be it. If you don't, consider it payback for insisting on calling me by the ridiculous mishmash of syllables referred to (in jest, I am sure) as a name.

Anyway (Do I say 'anyway' too much?), life goes on as usual since you left. Except for that meetings are precisely 17 times more boring. And Molly seems to be using me as dumping grounds for all the food you aren't there to eat. Can't say I'm complaining though. The woman can cook. Oh, and her offspring Charlie Weasley has started accosting me after every meeting, saying something about joining him for a drink. I'm rather alarmed. Honestly didn't see it coming, but that could have been the result of my determined wishing that he wouldn't ask. Any ideas on how to deflect him? Haha I called him offspring. That's weird.

Okay I just read what I've written so far, and it's made me really depressed. I haven't said anything. This kind of letter is seriously going to get boring after a while. Mine will, that is; you seem to be able to make anything entertaining (or at least mildly interesting). We – meaning you – need to come up with an anti-boredom campaign to combat the somniferousness (word?) of my letters. Sigh. I hope that this paragraph doesn't confirm your suspicion that I live solely to be entertained. I like to think that I'm not quite so shallow, although evidence is often against me.

Dance, monkey!

Your affectionate, yet pathetically frivolous friend,

Tonks

P.S.: Find out what the alleged emu's name is!

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A bit short, I know. Remus should be a bit more long-winded (in a good way, I hope), and meatier, him being the more intellectual and contemplative of the two. So what did you think? And by the way, "Dance, monkey!" is in reference to Zoolander, in case you thought that was really unnecessary. 


	2. Remus: March 11

11 March

11 March

Nymphadora—

Of course correspondence was a great idea. When have I ever produced an idea that wasn't great? On second thought, I would prefer you refrain from answering that question, but if you absolutely cannot, use your own memory as a resource. Under no circumstances should you avail yourself of that inexhaustible reference book, _The Mind of Sirius Black_. Its information is poorly recorded, wildly speculative, and often downright fabricated. A bit like Rita Skeeter.

If you insist on calling me Jack, I'll insist on calling you Dora instead of Nymphadora. Have we a deal? And by the way, I happen to consider your name a rather pleasing arrangement of syllables, so I must object to you dismissing it as mishmash.

You are absolutely right in suggesting that we find a solution to the boring letter dilemma, although I think you woefully underestimate your entertainment capacities. Why not just write as if we are having our midnight cocoa, since our deprivation is the whole reason we're writing anyway? Of course, now that I sit here thinking about it, I really have no idea what we talk about. What _do_ we talk about? Should I be concerned about this apparent amnesia?

I'll try to ignore it. To change the subject, I found the news about Charlie Weasley very intriguing. Not too long ago I walked into the living room to find him veritably sucking the face off of Emmeline. I think it scarred me for life, to see such a normally prudish woman behave so . . . expressively? I still shudder to think of it. A few days after that incident, Padfoot informed me that her brother Bob Vance (from Vance Refrigeration) found out and threatened to knock Charlie out. Always something, right? You could always bring up this touchy subject if all else fails to deter him. I'm probably giving you the impression that I adore gossip over than all else. My apologies.

The reality is that I'm bored beyond all reason sitting in this stifling tent watching nothing happen at this gaudy palace they call "Malfoy Manor." If ever you questioned my qualification in the sympathy department for the boredom you incur doing paperwork, I can assure you that my present incarceration fully certifies me. (I've read that sentence four times now and still can't decide if it makes sense.) There is nothing to do. At all. Occasionally I get to watch the gardener chase the family pet – (a peacock, incidentally, not an emu – across the lawn. Not my idea of entertainment. Perhaps we're both addicted to diversion?

And not to sound like a complete whiner, but the food is worse than the boredom. In a rare lack of foresight, I packed the least substantial sustenance available in 12 Grimmauld Place. You get the idea. I don't know what I was thinking, but I miss Molly's food like you wouldn't believe. If I can survive till Thursday, Kingsley is supposed to drop by to restock and collect information. These pretzels are making me thirsty!

Well, that was depressing. You must tell me what goes on in the meetings I miss. And by what goes on, I mean who falls asleep, what awkward things Moody says, and how many sales Dung tries to carry out. Hey! We talk about meetings when we drink our hot chocolate, don't we! At last my memory returned. And there was much rejoicing.

Write back soon. I can feel my brain withering on its stalk for lack of use. It's not a pleasant sensation.

Your affectionate, yet shamelessly splenetic friend,

Remus

P.S.: And concerning your last letter, I must be firm. Nymphadora (or Dora, I guess), as charming as your quirks are, you're going to have to refrain from writing 'anyway' more than twice. It was painful. :-)

A/P: Read and review, people! And anyone who guesses the two/maybe three allusions I made in there wins my undying love and admiration! But seriously review though because I want to learn how to make this better. Thanks!


	3. Tonks: March 16

**A/N:** How about this quick update! I must admit I'm rather proud. It's a long one, too. Read and review--constructive criticism, people! Or you can just tell me how amazing and perfect I am. That works too. Enjoy!

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16 March

Jack—

HA! You _so_ aren't a Jack. I'm definitely never going to call you that again. My plans have been foiled. Or something.

Remus—

Yeah. Sorry about the whole 'anyway' thing. I always forget that a letter is not the appropriate place for experimentation in stream of consciousness writing. Haha I almost wrote _scream_ of consciousness. Now _that's_ something worth trying!

I hope you enjoy the Sudoku puzzles I included. These last few days, I nearly couldn't suppress the urge to cackle with glee as I sat there at the Ministry clipping Sudokus from a stack of Muggle newspapers. More than one fellow Auror applauded me for finally spending my time constructively—they thought I was dutifully compiling information to nab that slippery Sirius Black! How about that: my trying to cure your boredom ends up curing _my_ boredom. Stupendous.

Anyway (does that count as the first or second time I've said it?), about Charlie Weasley, whose name I am considering condensing to Cheesley. The situation really is getting desperate. He's passed the general "we should go get a drink sometime" stage and progressed to the "I saw that you're off duty this Tuesday night insert excruciatingly long, uncomfortable, expectant silence" stage. How on earth am I supposed to shake this guy without making every future Order meeting a hellish hour of sitting caged with awkwardness incarnate? I mean it's creepy enough to have him gawking at me while Moody expatiates on the finer points of disguise theory. You know, he started making a move the day after you left. Anyway, I think I'll hold out on your idea of blackmail, although I did find the tale about Emmeline rather amusing.

Okay so 'rather amusing' doesn't really describe it. More like riotously outrageous. As in, get me a paper bag because I'm about to hyperventilate. As in, bring in the defibrillator because I'm about to go into V-tach. As soon as I pictured Emmeline, age 26 going on 50, sticking her tongue down Charlie Weasley's throat, I had the misfortune of simultaneously guffawing and gagging. Sirius thought I was choking to death, so he chivalrously whacked me on the back until I recovered. Man. Honestly, I wouldn't have believed it if anyone but you had told me. I do admit I too thought she was a prude. Then again, I thought you were a prude when I first met you, but I quickly learned never to judge first impressions.

I'll tell you what, that's probably been the best part of your letters, getting to know what you're _really_ thinking about. Did you realize your rant about the boredom and the food is THE first time I have EVER heard you complain, and I'm ALWAYS complaining? You should be ashamed of yourself, making me do all the dirty work! Well regardless, I should have started making you write me letters a lot earlier so the truth would come out. You're quite the closed book, but, as you have pointed out numerous times, I lie prostrate to curiosity. Beware, you mysterious and intriguing man, you! :-P

So yeah. Meetings go on as always, and I shall proceed to answer each of your questions in order. Yesterday I think we set a record in the sleep department—Hestia indulged us with a _riveting_ play-by-play of her covert (and ultimately fruitless) research in the Ministry's classified records room. Not only did the regulars (Charlie, Arthur, Sirius, and myself) catch a few winks, but we also had some surprise snores from Dumbledore _and_ drumroll Mad-eye Moody himself! I almost started cheering. And speaking of that master of tactlessness, his quantity is lacking, but his quality never fails. My favorite announcement he made in the last meeting was that, since there are fewer female prospective Death Eaters, our objective is to seduce the number of males who are considering joining. I _think_ he meant 'reduce,' but hell, with his wild ideas, he may actually want us girls to don the little black dress for every recruitment operation. It was a hoot though. Even McGonagall snorted (but tried to disguise it as a cough). And to answer the last of your questions, Dung attempted only one transaction: he tried to sell one of Sirius' mother's old rings to Sirius himself. Sometimes you just don't know whether to laugh or beat your head on the floor.

You say you can hardly remember anything we talk about over cocoa because you're too polite to point out that all I do is moan and groan about work. And don't deny it! But the sad thing is, I'm not remorseful enough to quit whining. Scrimgeour is such a pain. He _made_ me change my hair because he could see it over the walls of my cubicle. (I had a _rockin'_ bouffant that day.) I almost told him to go choke on his balls. Hairballs, that is. The man looks like a feline. And on top of that, Moody caught me sleeping and _doubled_ the paperwork I have to do. Giving me twice as much paperwork is tantamount to asking me to sleep twice as long. However, I did have some fun this week. I saw Gerald—that trainee I was telling you about, remember?—taking his own little nap on his desk, so I stapled his necktie to the desk nice and good and yelled in his ear. It was perfect: he snapped to attention only to faceplant into the desk from the whiplash. I laughed the rest of the day.

So. I just read over this letter. You've deprived me of my anyway's so now there are zero transitions. I guess you asked for it. Well that about wraps up my letter. I do apologize for the discombobulation, but I could easily argue that it's just my nature. Did I mention that I tripped over the troll leg for the forty-third time the other day? Sirius has been keeping count. Oh and he said to tell you that if you ever compared him to Rita Skeeter again, he might accidentally tell me something about you and one Susan Heyward? The curious mind has been unleashed. (I only read that one paragraph as a concession; he'd been begging me for hours to see your letter. Dare I ask what he was expecting?) Ah, well. Molly's calling me down for supper—wish you could join us—so I believe I'll end this letter here.

Your affectionate, yet grammatically hopeless friend,

Tonks

P.S.: Malfoy keeps peacocks? He must be compensating for something. What he's compensating for with a peacock, I have no idea. I need names, though. Surely he gives his peacocks names?


	4. Remus: March 20

**A/N:** Sorry it took so long to update - I'm getting overwhelmed with school. In fact, I was supposed to do quite a bit of homework tonight, but y'all know how it is: nobody can resist that fanfic urge! Yeah weird mood right now. So I hope you enjoy. It's a little rough because, like I said, school is oppressive, and there's just not much time to work with. It seemed like yesterday AP exams were five weeks away, and then today I look and there's just two more weeks till judgment day. Ok I'll quit complaining now. Read and review, and as always, I'd love to hear how to improve things, or even ideas on where to go and what to include. I live for suggestion! (not really) So thanks to everybody who has reviewed so far, and enjoy!

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20 March

Dora—

I regret to inform you that you shall henceforth never hear me call you Tonks again. It's either Dora or Nymphadora now. Suck it up. ;-)

Cannot thank you enough for the Sudokus. Three whole hours of entertainment! And to top it off, I discovered that the peacock's name is Cliff. So that's Lucius, Narcissus, Draco, and Cliff. The gardener, however, remains nameless, though I seriously doubt he's a Death Eater, in the same way that I doubt Filch is a Death Eater.

I fear I talk about the gardener too much, but he's the only human being I've seen out here so far (except for blessed Kingsley who brings me my victuals). In other words, there are no Death Eaters. If it turns out that I spend two months holed up in this miserable tent doing nothing more than watching a senile gardener chase a peacock named Cliff, I'm going to rip out Dumbledore's abdomen, beat him in the head with it until he collapses, put it on my head, and declare myself the queen of France. (Ever seen _Rejected_? Those Muggles can be imaginative.) But I'll probably just join Padfoot and drown my woes in firewhiskey.

Speaking of Padfoot, with every passing hour I become more and more anxious about just what might spew forth in his drunken effusions of frustration while I'm not there to supervise. There's no telling what choice tales about me and the infernal Heyward girl or any one of her despicable groupies might eruct (such a great word) from his gullet without someone there to staunch – or at least reroute – the flow. And don't act all shocked – you've surely deduced by now that Maraudership intrinsically entails a shamelessly unprincipled youth. Actually, I seem to recall that just about every sticky situation I landed myself in was directly preceded by the words, "Oh come on, Moony—it builds character!" I like to think that James and Sirius were joking and that our tomfoolery (haha) had no influence whatsoever on the formation of my character, but I'm probably deluding myself. Not complaining though. If it weren't for them, my nose would doubtless be fused permanently to a book, rather than the present ninety percent of my time.

My sentence structure is running away with me again.

Changing subject now. I must note I was quite flattered that you chose to describe me as 'mysterious and intriguing,' when you could just have easily settled on 'reserved' or even 'cagey.' You're absolutely right that I _am_ a closed book; I'll be the first to admit it, though in my defense, I have been making a real effort to be sincere and open with you. No doubt that's a foreign concept to you, actively striving to be vulnerable. In fact I'll bet you don't even consider it vulnerability. I love how you can just say what's on your mind and not care in the slightest how people will respond or what inferences they might make. In all honesty I would argue that it is more courageous to be so unguarded than it is to fight in any battle of this war. Candidness leaves you open to things—good and bad—that you'll deal with for the rest of your life, whereas when you fight in battle, you either continue to live or you just die, neither of which I personally have a problem with: it's my friends' death, not my own, that concerns me. Anyway, I sometimes feel that death isn't half so frightening (it's hard to say why...) as life – or living, at any rate. I think dying itself is a different matter, though. This is getting morbid. But do you see what I'm saying, or am I just babbling?

I'm just babbling. Anyway, about Charlie Weasley. Cheesley. Whoever he is. So things are looking bleak? I've thought and thought and haven't come up with much to say. You could always resort to the old, "I'm actually seeing someone else..." or just tell him (in whatever tactful form you can furnish) that you've got better prospects elsewhere, whether you do or not. Ha, or else you could just tell him that straight up and never have to bother with him again. Does Sirius know about this predicament? He probably has loads of tricks up his sleeves – he has a lot more experiencing in avoiding dates than I have. And anyway I have a good feeling Sirius would relish the chance to fend Charlie off, because he loves helping his friends out, whether they want it . . . or not. (Now is the time to employ the word cagey, by the way. ;-P) So, regrettably, that's my best advice: go tell Sirius. At least it will make him feel useful.

Alas, I'm running out of daylight, and Dumbledore says there is a greater probability of activity at night, so I have to pay especial attention. Yippee. (Observe the sarcasm as it oozes down the page.) Maybe I'll describe this place a little more in my next letter, but be sure to keep me informed on dear Grimmauld Place until then. I greatly appreciated your report on the meeting; have you seduced any Death Eaters to our side yet? Shouldn't be _too_ terribly difficult. Why must _I_ be on a mission when the ladies of the Order don the little black dress?

Your affectionate, yet outrageously aggrieved friend,

Remus

P.S.: Did you notice that on the back of the Sudoku from the _Daily Prophet_ there was an editorial lamenting a rise in Muggles sighting werewolves, particularly in London? The writer apparently saw it written somewhere, "I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand, walking through the streets of Soho in the rain." You have to wonder about people sometimes.

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**A/N:** Who howls at the top of their lungs along with that song besides me? awOOOOOOOOOOO!


	5. Tonks: March 25

**A/N:** Yeah a quick update! The hell with studying! Yeah. I promised someone I'd quote _Rejected_ in the first line, so there you have it. I gloated for five whole minutes for having worked it in so naturally, so don't hesitate to congratulate me. Haha, I'm just kidding. Anyway, this one's a bit shorter and a bit rough, but that OBVIOUSLY is due to the setting in which she's writing, because I always meticulously plan everything through. Ha. Enjoy and review!

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25 March

Remus—

I live in a giant bucket, an accretion of misery and despair, a cesspool of feculence, putrefaction, and rancid filth. And I stumbled (literally) upon a thesaurus on my way down to the kitchen last night.

You may be asking, with the voice of Ralphie's old man in _A Christmas Story_, "What has brought you to this loooowly state?" The answer prowls endlessly about my cubicle an wears the dread gold earring of death. Kingsley Shacklebolt, whom you have been duped into considering a godsend, has apparently been commissioned by Mad-eye to eliminate my indolence. My thesaurus isn't producing a satisfactory synonym for overzealous. Fanatical will have to do. Or crazed. He's constantly looking over my shoulder, he nags me at every meeting, and he has even taken to timing me whenever I use the ladies' room, banging on the door if I'm in there "too long." I am outraged, enraged, indignant, furious, fuming, seething, and livid. I demand my rights!

Okay I need to calm down. Sirius is looking at me funny; I may have been writing a bit too expressively. I'm currently in the middle of an Order meeting, writing this letter under the pretense of obeying Tyrantsley's (I'm so clever!) command that I take careful notes. I mean really, no sane person would take notes on Sturgis' hour-long report on guard duty when it can be summed up in two words: nothing happened. Sigh.

There is, however, some hope amidst the squalor. Sirius turned out to be infinitely helpful in the Cheesley quandary (all hail the thesaurus!). After much internal debate, I gave up and related to him the dilemma, and he was on it quicker than a duck on a junebug, as my mother loves to say. He had all sorts of advice, including to call Charlie 'Chuckles,' to use a bunch of Molly's adages when talking with him, and to never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line. I'm not so sure about that last one, but all the rest seem to be pretty effective; I've observed a rapid shortening in the length of our confabulations.

Dammit! Kingsley just confiscated my thesaurus. If anger radiates off me too excessively, will my fellow Order-members be in danger of radiation poisoning? Can I use that as an excuse to leave early?

Anyway, back to Sirius. I was really astonished at how eager he was to fend Charlie off. He reminds me of the stereotypical father who tries to annihilate all competition for the one boy he wants his daughter to marry. It's kind of cute actually. Hopefully he won't try to kill off my dad so that he can walk me down the aisle. That was unnecessary. Haha he's regarding me quite suspiciously right now because I keep looking at him and sniggering. Now he's wiping off his face; he must think he's got food on him and I'm laughing at that. Oh, by the way, unfortunately for me and luckily for you, he hasn't been leaking juicy (ha!) stories about you lately because he's been so occupied with brainstorming anti-Cheesley tactics that he isn't drinking as much. I guess that's good, but I still want to hear about your misguided youth...

And speaking of secretiveness (or, secrecy), that reminds me: you seem to be laboring under the delusion that I _like_, or _benefit from_, or _am unconscious of_ the disconnect between my brain and my mouth. It's like I have to listen to what I say to know what my thoughts are, and I don't think that made any sense at all. If you've ever wondered why I'm so clumsy, it's because one foot permanently resides in my mouth instead of remaining securely on the floor. Sure you can know exactly what I'm thinking, but in the heat of the moment, my thought process might not accurately reflect what I really feel, and that's such a liability. What I wouldn't give for just an _ounce_ of your self-control! I _love_ how you can say _exactly_ what you mean to say, because then I can pick it apart and figure out _exactly_ what you're really thinking! There's so much _power_ in being able to command yourself like that! Why can't

Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Okay so now Sirius _and_ McGonagall are engrossed with my wild, maniacal scribbling. In retrospect, that paragraph was a perfect example of my convulsive effusions. Form follows function!

Jinkies! Jeepers! Zoinks! The meeting is drawing to a close and Kingsley is staring me down with intent to kill. Death awaits me with nasty, big, pointy teeth. I better make like eggs and scramble, although there's probably a sound argument that I already am scrambled. In the head. I know I'm not funny, but I try.

Your affectionate, yet depressingly spastic friend,

Tonks

P. S.: If you're comparing the gardener to Argus Filch, his name is bound to be Scut Farkus or something like that. And also did you notice how much my writing deteriorated once Kingsley impounded my thesaurus? I was going all _kinds_ of crazy with my vocabulary. Wooo! I'm not on crack, I swear. I'm suffering from severe boredom, and I know you've exhibited the symptoms too. You get a little more loopy with each letter you send. :)

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**A/N:** Wow writing that first sentence was soooo much fun. Hope you liked it. And savor this chapter because there won't be another one for two or three weeks. School sucks. Get over it. Lol sorry. Whoever picks out the most quotes/allusions/whatevers gets my undying love and admiration!


	6. Remus: March 28

**A/N**: FREEEEEDOM! Freedom at last! The strife is o'er, the battle done. And the AP exams weren't even that awful. US history was a joke, bio was ok (but I still don't know what net and gross primary productivity is), and English lang was just a pain (who cares about pennies?!). But it's all good because I don't have to even think about them until July! YAY!

Anyway, thanks to everyone for your patience during my academic oppression. Feast your eyes, dear readers, feast away.

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28 March

Dora—

Please accept my most hearty thanks for risking life and limb to write that letter during the meeting, and I do sympathize with your plight of being hounded by Kingsley. Back when I taught at Hogwarts, Snape tracked me with what I imagine was zeal to rival Kingsley's, though I doubt anyone put him up to it. Incidentally, I believe that was the same year it _Dawn_-ed on me that it would take, not shampoo, but dishwashing detergent to cut through all the grease in his hair. (Are you cheering or groaning at that pun?)

Oh! How did I almost forget—I discovered the gardener's name! It's not Scut Farkus, but ... Roger!

That makes him Roger the Shrubber.

I was glad to hear that relations with Charlie appear to be convalescing nicely. It's a mystery how Sirius always knows how to handle these things. I inevitably find it rather humiliating to ask such a primitive being for advice, and though he milks my shame for all its worth, he's never failed to help me out. But only if I ask. If I don't avail myself of that bubbling font of guidance often enough, he makes sure to land me in an awkward situation, like the time in fourth year when he convinced me that McGonagall thought werewolves were irresistibly sexy. I swear to you I spent an entire four months keeping a safe thirty feet between us (which is quite a feat when you're caged in her classroom) before Prongs realized what was going on and informed me of my gullibility. And then he found a dollar.

Finding a dollar transforms any boring story into a pleasant tale. Always remember that.

And by the way, I'd rather you wouldn't remind Padfoot of that pleasant tale. With luck, he may have forgotten about it. And since you openly admit you love finding loopholes, usually for avoiding paperwork, I should add that I forbid you from passing it along to McGonagall herself. I do wonder what she'd say, though...

Onward and upward. I just realized you haven't heard about the big move. Just after I sent that last letter, I decided on a whim to relocate the entire tent into a nearby oak tree so that I could actually look down into the house with the binoculars. To make a long, long story short, the endeavor was absurdly difficult but well worth the labor. It turns out the Death Eaters _have_ been holding meetings, but that they haven't had to use the grounds at all to get into the house, meaning I've wasted nearly a month of work. So encouraging. Evidently they've figured out how to Apparate certain people through all the security enchantments, which are probably nearly as heavy as ours at Grimmauld Place. There are indeed new recruits, some of whom I've identified, but you'll hear more of that later, as I've sent my report along with Kingsley, your favorite Order member ever. Mission: Little Black Dress is an apparent failure.

Anyway, it was while I was watching one of these late-night Malfoy Manor meetings from my precariously perched pavilion that I had this huge realization. It occurred to me that I was actually eating supper at 2 a.m., that supper was a can of green beans, and that supper had been a can of green beans for the last four days; and I was just staggered by the emptiness of living alone, living only for yourself. I don't know why it only struck me now, as I've been living alone for the fifteen years before Grimmauld Place became almost hospitable. Perhaps it's that now I'm _physically_ isolated from the human race, or maybe it's just the contrast after meeting you and boarding with Sirius again. Whatever it was, I've been profoundly affected.

It's strange. When you're cooped up for so long, you start to wonder about things, about what's really important. Is it really important to cook your green beans if you're the only one eating them, and you don't mind them raw? Is it really important to pour your milk into a glass if no one complains about you drinking it from the jug? Is it really important to shave if there's no one to be bothered by your scruffiness? (The answer to that last one, by the way, is yes, because beards itch like hell.)

I hope you're not getting the impression that I'm totally letting myself go; I still drink milk from a glass. At first these questions were cynical, because for a while there life really seemed pointless. I'll admit there were times when I seriously wondered what point there was in rolling out of bed when I saw no reason for persisting. You, of course, shook me back to my senses, with your letter. You never fail. Whenever I stray too far into the non-reality of theory and ideology, there you are with your neon pink hair, stabbing at the marshmallow in your hot chocolate and complaining about work. You have no idea how your vitality grounds me in reality. Watching you exist keeps me functioning. Is that odd? Uh, yeah, judging by this paragraph, I think you nailed it on the head when you said I was going a bit loopy. That's what dear Peeves used to call me. Loopy Lupin. Ah, good times.

But I digress. What I intended to say after I wrote that your letter goaded me into sanity was that I started trying to actually _answer_ these questions instead of just moping about them. Why _do_ we roll out of the bed every morning and work ourselves to death? Surely there's a decent reason, because everyone does it every single day, even those of us who can't reasonably hope to ever have someone to live for and provide for. Dora, though I may risk sounding like your mother by saying it, you've really got to find yourself a husband. It shouldn't be _too_ hard for you to find a decent man with whom to spend the rest of your life, what with everything you've got going for you. Staying out here has been like fast-forwarding to eighty years old when you feel like you've outlived your usefulness. I'm much better now, of course, but I wouldn't wish isolation like that on anyone.

So that's my advice, it seems: go get married. You'll note I wasn't just being modest when I said that Sirius is the one to go to.

Hmm. I've spent the last few minutes reconsidering whether I should send you such a predominantly depressing and serious (those words follow each other with troubling ease) letter when our correspondence has been largely nothing but persiflage. I have concluded that since these letters are substituting for post-meeting cocoa, it is perfectly appropriate because, if my calculations are correct—and they always are—our conversations are 10 percent seriousness, 20 percent repartee, and 70 percent whining. So humor me and write back soon, whether you're at work or in a meeting or watching Padfoot drink himself to death or hiding from Charlie in a closet or whatever. You get the idea. Until then I shall be observing old Roger arrange his shrubberies pondering why I rolled out of bed this morning.

Your affectionate, yet ponderously observant friend,

Remus

P.S.: Are you familiar with the buttered cat phenomenon? If you find yourself afflicted with unusual levels of boredom, I suggest you test it out on McGonagall and tell me all about it. Or you could wait until I get back and we'll make it a joint effort. I'll do the planning, of course, and you'll do the dirty work. ;-)

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks again for your patience. I can assure you I've been just as eager for an update as you have. Anyone who reviews gets a telekinetic pat on the back! Oh and why doesn't support the percent sign? And brackets?!


	7. Tonks: March 31

**A/N:** Heck yes! A quick update! I've got to make up for lost time. And I'm going to be gone for basically all of June, so I'm trying to finish this thing up before then. You know, while I've still got some momentum going. R&R, my dears. I greatly appreciate it.

* * *

31 March

Remus—

THREE WEEKS! THREE WEEKS! Have you heard?! You probably haven't because this letter will probably reach you before Kingsley does! You're coming home in THREE WEEKS! I'm so excited! And I like exclamation points! YAY!

Deep breath. For both of us. Okay. Now that I sit here thinking about it, that's only like ten days shorter than it would have been, but we'll work with what we've got. Dumbledore was super-stoked at the meeting this afternoon when we all read your report. He's not stoked about the fact that the Death Eaters are having meetings, but that you've been able to watch them. He said something like he wants you to gauge the general mood and determine if there's any regularity in how often they meet, but you'll get the particulars from Kingsley. Three weeks! I could dance.

But I won't, because Hogwarts just let out for the Easter holidays, and the whole Weasley clan plus Harry are sitting here with me in the living room for a little I-am-free-from-school-at-last party. And Sirius is sitting on the other end of this couch, attempting to furtively peek at what I'm writing. Sneaky little devil. I told him about our plan of strapping McGonagall to a slice of buttered toast, and he begged to join in so that he could be the one to drop her from the top of the stairs. He _is_ the type to viciously murder old ladies, isn't he. Tut tut.

Ooh I think I just spied Ron flirting with Hermione. I knew it would happen sooner or later!

Ugh. Look at me sitting here getting all excited about teenage drama. Proof that I needed the seriousness in your last letter, though currently I'm not in a proper state to engage in it. I really am glad you said all that, though. I had a feeling that you had been putting on too good a face while you suffered your captivity, and I'll admit I was a bit miffed that you were trying to hide it. Because you know I'm nosey like that. Anyway, it's nice to have a bit of substance in our correspondence, is it not? I must say though, I bypassed miffed and arrived at exasperated when you said—what exactly was the rubbish you said?—something like _those of us who can't reasonably hope to ever have someone to live for and provide for_? What is that, Remus? You've got to realize some people just don't care about your "problems" or whatever. I mean I care about them of course, but it's not like they put everybody off. Find a happy medium between thinking nothing of yourself (you) and thinking WAY too much of yourself (Sirius). Hmm...who's a good example? Oh, I know—me!

Hohoho! Hahaha! Hehehe! Am I funny or _what_? I can practically hear you replying, "Or what." Oh, I'll tell you what I did do that was funny, though. I planted a bottle of Dawn on the shampoo rack in the downstairs shower. Can't you just picture Snape noticing it and then asking in the next meeting why some idiot would put it there? And then I would giggle and titter (read "hack and snort"), and everyone would think 'Wow, Tonks, what a genius joke,' and I would get all your glory. Muhahaha! Oh, by the way, while I may be laughing about it now, I definitely did a major head-desk when I saw that pun. Boo hiss! ;-)

Another thing in your letter that induced a head-desk was your advice. You want me to find myself a decent man, huh? It just so happens that I _have_ found one and have been trying to coax him along for quite a while now, but he seems a little slow on the uptake. No matter what I do, he just won't seem to take the bait. My frustration turned to utter desperation the other night so I kowtowed up to the supremely primitive being bearing alcoholic gifts and beseeching his counsel. I was advised to play the jealousy card, and after initial misgivings, I soon saw the wisdom in the old canine's words.

But stay! What vision is this that saunters near to plop down next to me on the couch? 'Tis a dashing young Weasley come to rescue this fair damsel from the cramp that has befallen her writing hand. Fare thee well, good gentle, for I am off to relapse the heretofore convalescing relations with dear Squire Charles.

Actually, I'm not signing off _quite_ yet; the little squirt (that is to say, the young squire) has pranced off to hook me up with another glass of the Black Family's finest. Yes, I said another. You've probably gathered that I've had a touch already, but I don't feel like reading this letter through again to edit out the unseemly bits. Don't really care at the moment, but I probably will in the morning. You know how it is. Oh here comes Cheesley the Valiant now. Presently I shall be too inebriated to spell my own name (this stuff is strong!), so I guess now is the time for me to skedaddle. Toodles!

Your affectionate, yet bouncily reckless friend,

Tonks

P.S.: I really do wish you could be here—Molly made meatloaf. There is nothing like good meatloaf. In fact, the one and only bad thing about meatloaf is that it's called 'meatloaf.' I mean really. That's just sick: a _loaf_ of _meat_? It just conjures up this image of a congealed, hulking mass of ground cow. Bleh. But my goodness does it taste glorious! (I don't know why I'm talking about meatloaf. Leaving now.)

* * *

**A/N:** So what did you think? I've never heard of writing under the influence, and I figured Tonks would be the only one to try something like that, so yeah. Part of it is that I'm unreasonably tired right now and thought I'd try to mask it. You know how it is. Review and you get rainbows and unicorns and lollipops and puppy dogs! Or I can always arrange for spikes and chains and piercings if you prefer that sort of thing.

And apparently David Cook won American Idol? I don't keep up with it, but I'm currently on the phone with a friend who is trying and failing to coherently communicate her joy amid paroxysms of delight. I'm a bit bored.


	8. Remus: April 4

**A/N:** GAAAAAAH! So far I've counted three roaches scuttling about in my fireplace, and for the last twenty minutes I've had to listen to them engage in a fierce struggle to get out and invade my living room. I've never encountered such persistent roaches in my life! I am armed with a can of Raid in case they manage to escape, but right now they're just scratching around on the chain mail drape thing, whatever it's called. The noise is driving me absolutely **nuts**! Roaches are THE worst thing about the Palmetto State, followed closely by outrageously expensive car insurance. I do love it here though.

Hmm. Not sure why I'm rambling on about roaches and car insurance. I told you I was going nuts.

Anyway, here's the update. R&R!

* * *

4 April

Dora—

Three weeks! It's a major award! After I heard, I really didn't know what to do with myself for a while, but eventually I decided to break into that huge Honeydukes chocolate bar (the one you gave me for Christmas), which I'd been rationing. You know me and chocolate. I thought it was pretty funny that you sounded almost as excited as I am, no doubt owing to the wine—and I know the Black Family's finest is strong because Sirius and I split its second-finest a few months back, and it knocked us both out cold. Hopefully one of you remembered to guard the liquor cabinet, though, as I'm sure the Twins & Co. were eyeing it covetously. I would hate for one of them to get into a situation like the one I endured with the infernal Heyward girl. I still shudder to think of it.

Oh, how convenient! Just as I began to despair that I would find no plausible excuse to change the subject, I happened to observe the Malfoyian paternal unit and his filial counterpart exit their abode to formicate about the gardens, prompting old Roger to dive into his shrubberies in terror. It appears that every relationship, even that of a shrubber and his master, is strained in these dark times. Pity.

Well, how about that—even from this distance I've been temporarily blinded by the sun's reflection off father and son's identically greased heads. I have to wonder when exactly Lucius decided to bestow upon young Draco his arcane knowledge of the expertly smeared pate. I'll bet there was a secret ceremony in the dead of night involving tests of strength and animal sacrifice for his induction into the cognoscenti of pomade application. How honored the littlest Malfoy must have felt to enter the ranks of the select slicked-up Slytherins who preceded him!

In case you were wondering, this dissertation on the Malfoys and their conjectured adventures in this curious brand of gnosticism have absolutely no relevance whatsoever to anything in this letter; in fact, I really don't know what spurred me to write it. I daresay the news of my imminent(-ish) homecoming has rendering me . . . a bit _giddy_? That word has the greatest mental images associated with it. Haha I just pictured you picturing me acting giddily and snorting in your cocoa, because when you think about it, you know that's exactly what would happen.

And if that last sentence wasn't a testament to my current state, I don't know what is. I begin to understand how you can be so lively.

Ah, well. All this out-of-character frivolity is unsettling. I should probably settle down a bit, even though it seems like every day you tell me I need to loosen up. In fact, I recall one memorable night when you chose to describe my reserve as "stiffer than a teenage boy at a Victoria's Secret fashion show." That one was unquestionably my favorite, but I prefer to use "stiffer than week-old road kill" and "stiffer than a wedding drink" when talking with others in everyday conversation.

Speaking of everyday conversation, that's what I'm most looking forward to with my return. While writing letters is the best way to address (no pun intended) our dispossession of post-meeting cocoa, as a self-proclaimed man of few words, I find it awkward and unnatural to discourse for so long without you interrupting. And yes, as bizarre as that sounds, I do miss your interruptions. In fact, they would probably be particularly convenient now as I try to discern just who is this "decent man" you've found, who "won't take the bait" despite all your subtle "coaxing."

If subtlety is the technique you've employed thus far, I wouldn't blame him for his apparent obtuseness. You appear to have forgotten that all men, the man in question included, are meatheads at heart, mixaphorically speaking, and are biologically incapable of perceiving subtlety. Though a few refined individuals have, by much (much, much, _much_) sweat and blood, learned to parrot the subtle manner of the females, never has one understood it. It is a cruel irony.

Therefore, my theory is that the man in question doesn't respond because he either is totally insensible or thinks the situation too good to be true. I'm betting the latter is the case, because you don't strike me as one susceptible to the enchantments of the irredeemably inane. However, my assumptions have been known to be wrong before (as have yours, though I do recognize the regrettable ease with which I could be misconstrued as a prudish pedant); so I suggest you take this opportunity to uphold your resplendent reputation, which I'm sure is just as squeaky clean as mine. Cough.

And by the way, provoking jealousy is a very clever tactic; the man in question will undoubtedly play into your hands, even if he can see right through your scheme. Just remember that little Chuckles, whom you appear to have chosen as your instrument of torment, is not the sharpest crayon in the box, so make sure you don't accidentally lead him on. I daresay the lentiginous gent wouldn't even know how to empty water from his wellies, even if the instructions were written on the heels. Of course I don't really mean that; I just needed an excuse to use the word 'lentiginous.' No, really—I'm serious!

I probably ought to stop before I dig myself into too deep a hole. Blasted letters. Where's my personal interrupter when I need her?

Your affectionate, yet uncharacteristically loquacious friend,

Remus

P.S.: Ah, meatloaf. I would eat meatloaf no matter what it was called. I'd eat it even if I found it dumped in the trashcan and labeled 'saprogenic mucopurulence curds.' I think. The point is, I adore meatloaf and am insanely jealous that I missed out on it. I may survive, but one can never be sure. (And needless to say, I found a thesaurus too; however, I managed not to trip over it.)

* * *

**A/N:** Well, there you have it. Hope you enjoyed!

And I know this is totally irrelevant, but today is my nephew's first birthday! YAY!


	9. Tonks: April 8

**A/N:** Evening, lovelies. Or early morning, rather. I would like to announce that I am at last freed from dreary captivity. Stuck at this thing called governor's school for a whole month. Yeah, I wish I didn't know what it was either. Hey, at least it gives me a chance to quote one of my favorites: The strife is o'er, the battle done! Yay!

And I thought I might mention that I ate a can of green beans for supper tonight. I wish I could say I was inspired by Remus, not vice versa. If 'twere true, 'twould be . . . twerrific! (Name the movie. It's one of my all-time favorites.)

Anyway. So I'm back and I've written. Feast your eyes, and hope I am not detained further!

* * *

8 April

Remus—

Oddly enough, I'm going to have to begin this letter by congratulating you for just now opening that chocolate bar. It just so happens that I _do_ know you and chocolate, and I am awed that you of all people could faithfully forgo it for any period of time. Would that I possessed such self-mastery! :)

And by the way, in your list of my "stiff as"-isms, you forgot the best one of them all: stiffer than a porn star on Viagra. Heck yes!

Le sigh. Yes, I jest, but really I'm not in so good of a mood. Perhaps if I describe my spatial arrangement you might get an idea as to why. To my left sits Chuckles, my instrument of torture, torturing me until I spill my jealously guarded comments on today's weather. To my right sits your _dear_ Sirius, chattering me to no end about that mysterious man in question. Directly above me is Molly, hovering excitedly because she's convinced that this is a torrid love letter to Bill. And in front of me on the kitchen counter is a stack of paperwork taller than that cursed troll leg in the foyer.

Do I make myself clear?

The only anti-depressant within reach is this letter, so I'm clinging to it for dear life, although at the moment WARNING: SWALLOW WHATEVER YOU'RE EATING **NOW** I don't have anything to say. (Sorry, I didn't want you to choke to death in surprise at this unprecedented event.) I guess I'll just prattle for a while until something profound slips out. Torrid love letter, yeah?

Then again, it seems all I ever do is prattle. Don't you ever get tired of it? You know, for a man so occupied with lofty thoughts, you sure do hang around little old frivolous me a lot. Haha Sirius just spied that last sentence over my shoulder and reliably informed me that all males thoughts are much more mundane than females would care to think. I take that to mean food, sports, and women. Am I right?

Anyhoo. Let's see, what to talk about? Oh! Kingsley got a fancy new earring. Isn't that exciting? You know, he ended up not being tyrannical after all. It turned out Moody didn't put him up to keeping me in line; Kingsley was just trying to make me appear industrious because Scrimgeour was considering which aurors would get a pay raise. Nice of him, wasn't it? (Didn't get one by the way. I think my reputation runs too deep.) Hmm, what else. Oh yeah! How could I almost forget the pinnacle of my life experience! I knocked Snape's two front teeth out!

Too bad teeth are so easy to regrow. Ah, well.

But my, was it glorious! And painful! Not the teeth in the scalp part, but the running into the doorframe part. You see, we two arrived at the house at about the same time for the meeting, and when we walked in we heard this scream in the kitchen, so we ran to see what was up. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I apparently miscalculated exactly which point in space was occupied by the doorway, so I ran into the frame and knocked myself out cold. I fell backwards on the still sprinting Snape, the teeth lodged in the head, and the rest is history. (Oh and the scream? Molly overcooked the tomato pie. Yeah.)

Okay so apart from that little story, this letter is just about too worthless to send. I've sunk to new depths if I've been reduced to talking about Kingsley's new earring, no matter how magnificent it may be. I mean, it really is awe-inspiring. It's a wonder his head doesn't fall lopsided for the weight of the thing.  
This is pitiful. I mean really, someone please put me out of my misery. I may even be a threat to society.

All right so what (besides earrings) does one talk about when one wants to make things interesting? Sex, probably. Certainly. But for a number of reasons, not the least of which being the hawkish matron nearly perched atop my shoulder, I won't. I will talk about lurrrrve though. Psh, lurve. Obviously, these people are turning me kooky. Kooky...? They're still surrounding me by the way. And, yes, Charlie is still talking about the weather. ANYWAY! The man in question...

The man in question.

The man in question.

What to do about the man in question?? Sirius is still yabbering in my ear about it, but nothing's sounding really good. It's not as if thing are going badly; in fact, things are moving right along. It's just that they could be moving faster. I was kind of hoping we'd have some real results by, oh I don't know, April 21st maybe?

But hey, I should count my blessings right? This jealousy thing is really producing some good signs. Like for instance I've noticed the man in question blustering to make ol' Chuckie look woefully inferior to him. If that's not just like a man, I don't know what is. Good lord, water in the wellies?

Oops. Did I say that? (_Plink plink plink_ goes the sarcasm as it dribbles down the page and drips onto your desk...)

Look. Basically I'm tired of dancing around the subject. I think that's pretty clear from this jaded ramble of a letter I've spewed forth. I just don't get what the impasse is all about. Is it just that the man in question is the content with the pussyfooting? Or could he somehow be unsure of my feelings towards him? Well, whatever the reason, _he's_ got to be the one to do the deed, because if _I_ did it, I'd end up feeling like the clingy chick that ought to be blamed for everything or something. Besides, it's common etiquette for the male to ask the female out. And, let me tell you, the man in question idolizes etiquette. I'll bet he makes animal sacrifices to it. Human sacrifices! I'll bet he turns transvestite on weekends so that he can be one of those old ladies that writes etiquette books!

Kidding. But anyway, what do _you_ say the problem is? Really, I'm all ears.

Your affectionate, yet tiresomely restless friend,

Tonks

P.S.: On a scale of one to ten, one being not at all and ten being completely, how much would you consider yourself to be like Puddleglum?

* * *

**A/N:** I thought since I confessed to y'all my green bean supper, I may as well confess that I am currently eating (very many of) those little dill pickle slices that you put on hamburgers. Out of the jar with a fork. At 3:15 a.m.

Snaps for weird cravings!  
_snap snap_

And while you're snapping, you may as well review. ;)


	10. Remus: April 12

**A/N:** The following procession of chapters is dedicated to the illustrious **Helena Valentine**. She wants updates? I got updates! :)

* * *

12 April

Dora—

Come now, we all know that you know the man in question much better than I do. However, I would imagine part of his hesitancy is that he really enjoys the game, a test of minds so to speak. Though the end of the game is probably much better than the game itself, he's going to miss it dearly.

Your affectionate, yet half-heartedly ambiguous friend,

Remus

P. S.: You say ten is identical to Puddleglum? Then I am 9.8. I don't have webbed feet.


	11. Tonks: April 15

15 April

Remus—

You'll get over the loss, I'm sure.

Your affectionate, yet maniacally impatient friend,

Tonks

P. S.: I don't have anything to put here, but it just seemed wrong to leave out the post script. It's tradition.

* * *

**A/N:** Deep breath, now, here we go...


	12. Remus: April 21

**A/N:** Can you believe we're at the penultimate letter already? WOWZERS! lol jk. R&R!!

* * *

21 April

Nymphadora—

Today, at long last, I am free to come home. I packed up everything last night, and now all that's left is to finish this letter and somehow get this old tent out of the tree.

If all goes according to plan, you're reading this letter with me standing awkwardly in front of you, watching your reaction and praying to every god I can think of that it's a good one. If all is _not_ going according to plan, it's because I've chickened out and hid in the bathroom after planting this letter on the kitchen table. If that's the case, check the half-bath upstairs. Inconveniently located at the very end of the hall, it's a great hiding place because anyone who properly needed to use it would wet him- or herself long before he got there. Anyway.

I'm buying time, if you haven't noticed. Being the queen of subtlety and all, you probably have. At any rate, I've never written a love letter before, torrid or otherwise, so there's every chance this thing may turn out stilted. Or syrupy. Gag. I'll just write for a while and see what comes out, and with luck, it just might be decent. With luck.

Let's see, where to begin? At the beginning would be the most logical, I'd imagine. Well. Believe it or not, it was only the second meeting after your induction that I started, for lack of a better phrasing, to get interested in you. Damn that sounds weird. I'm awful at this. Bear with me here. At first, I tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than esteem I'd hold for anyone who could make an Order meeting interesting. I mean, hey, _I_ had never met anyone who would engage a week-old acquaintance in an impromptu staring contest!

Once Padfoot started inviting you to stay after meetings for cocoa, though, I quickly realized that what I felt was, uh, _slightly_ more than esteem. Naturally old Padsy was on to it within a day or two and had the truth out of me like shit through a goose. (_Animal House_ is the classic to end all classics. We could watch it together...) By the way, I can muster only the merest sympathy when you complain that he nags you about me; I had to hear it about 17 hours a day for months. You didn't hang around Grimmauld Place as much then, so he had all day long to talk. And I might add that even when you _were_ there, I was still subjected to it, just not with words. Endless prodding and meaningful glances and expectant coughs and kicks under the table and schemes to leave us alone in the kitchen... For a long time his elbow spent more time lodged in my ribcage than down by his side. Really, you have no idea. Come to think of it, I'll probably still be subjected to all that, but I believe it will be enormously more tolerable now.

That is, I hope. I really don't know where we stand now. I mean, hell, I haven't seen you for almost two months. It's been almost unbearable. You know, now that I think about it, I probably _am_ standing before you as I had planned, because as I sit here writing this I want nothing more than to see you again. Trying not to get syrupy here. Gag.

I used to curse this nearly worthless mission every day, because it meant two months without talking to you, without watching you laugh, without holding you hand while pulling you up off the floor, courtesy of that wonderful umbrella stand. (I really do love that thing. Can't see what you've got against it.) See, it was only when I lost all that that I realized I actually _needed_ to get past this "game," as you've chosen to call it. I believe it would have gone on indefinitely had I not been forced to see what it would feel like if we went our separate ways.

If you were to track my letters, you'd see at which point I despaired that eventually we _would_ go our separate ways and I wouldn't do a thing to stop it. The truth of the matter is that I just couldn't bear to put myself on a limb and bare my soul to you. Yet mercifully you saw my cowardice – and, yes, cowardice is precisely what it is – and started to make your feelings clear, so that I wouldn't be so afraid to do likewise. You see, Dora, I really do need you. If my father taught me nothing else, it was that a man needs a woman to turn him into a man; otherwise he'd be nothing more than a beast, a trapped animal that snaps in fear at anyone who tries to help it. With luck you could teach me your openness, your cheerfulness, and your audacity. But I'm getting a little ahead of myself, aren't I.

Anyway, since I'm currently spilling my guts to you in a _most_ un-Remus-ish way, I may as well say a few things more before bashfulness overtakes me. One thing is that I wish you'd stop worrying that all you do is mindlessly chatter. Because you don't. It is true that you talk a lot, but I love it. Lord, do I love it. I always enjoy hearing what you have to say, and besides, it's nice not having to feel obligated to fill the awkward silences. :)

I'd also like to say that I've been saving your letters in my pillow case (corny, n'est-ce pas?), that I am ridiculously endeared with your clumsiness, and that I hated pink before I saw your hair and am now infatuated with it.

There. I said it.

So, now what? Perhaps I could tempt you with gastronomical rapture at that dingy little muggle pub on the corner. Or dress Buckbeak up as a valiant white stallion to ride us off into the sunset. Or there's always _Animal House_, with its delightful vulgarity so charming that it sends even the stoniest of souls to sighing. Whatever you'd like, dear.

Your affectionate, hopefully now something more than a friend,

Remus

P.S.: If I'm Puddleglum, would you be Jill? Or would that be asking too much too soon... :)


	13. FIN

A tear slid down Teddy's nose and dropped onto the parchment before him. Chuckling sadly at the postscript, he carefully refolded the last of his father's letters and returned it to the manila envelope holding the rest of his parents' correspondence. His godfather had given him the packet earlier that night, the twentieth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and he sat now on his bed, trying to get a handle on the torrent of feelings that the letters brought.

There was, of course, the old ache of longing. Even if he hadn't heard the hundreds of stories from the Potters and the Weasleys, he now had his parents own words to show him what a fun, engaging pair they made. Again came the gloom that he could have been raised by such loving parents, but his old Gandy had done well enough, and the Potters—well, the Potters were just a godsend.

But the long-familiar sadness was just a part of Teddy's life, so he moved on to ponder the content of the letters. He laughed to think that his mother had once used Uncle Charlie—who, though by no means his uncle, was just as close as one—as an "instrument of torture" on his father. The playful harassment between Sirius and his father reminded Teddy intensely of that between him and his own best friend. He noticed that his father's foul mouth came out only when he was flustered, just like Teddy, and if these letters were any indication, it appeared that he had directly inherited his mother's sense of humor.

Speaking of inheritance, he thought back to the last of the letters and considered how he shared his father's daunting reluctance to go out on a limb even for the love of those most dear to him. He looked dolefully up at the picture of his lovely Victoire, jammed in the corner of the mirror frame where he'd be sure to see it every day. God, he loved her. And by some miracle—he was certain his father knew the feeling—she felt the same way about him.

They'd been dating for over a year, they were both out of school, it was high time he settled down . . . so what was stopping him? Probably nothing but his own silly fear of vulnerability. Just like his father—but _he_ got over it, didn't he? If Remus Lupin ended up with the woman of his dreams, why couldn't his own son do the same?

With a sudden determination, Teddy leapt off his bed and took his father's last letter over to the little desk in the corner of his room. After scanning the letter for the sentence he was thinking of, he took out some parchment and a quill and began to write.

_2 May_

_Victoire—_

_If my father taught me nothing else, it was that a man needs a woman to turn him into a man . . ._

* * *

With the letter finished, he carefully folded it and tucked it in his coat pocket. He was just about to Apparate to the Burrow, where he knew Victoire was spending the weekend, when suddenly he smacked himself on the forehead.

"Forgetful as your mother," he chided himself. Teddy pulled open his sock drawer and unearthed the small, velvet box that had sat there gathering dust for five guilty months. After peeking inside to admire the sparkling ring that had taken him so many paychecks to procure, he dropped the box in his pocket and took a long, steadying breath.

He turned on the spot, and vanished with a pop.

'

_-FIN-_

_._

* * *

**A/N:** So...what did you think!? That's my first really long thing ever, and it's crazy to think it's really done now. Wow. I've definitely learned that I should do more planning with the plot in the future, but I happened to have a lot of lucky inspirations on this one, so the end fit well. Please review! And thanks to everyone who's kept up with it despite my being a bad updater!

I particularly want to know whether y'all thought the little short letters there at the end were a good idea or not, and I'd love to hear opinons on this last chapter. Was it indeed a surprise, or was it obvious what was coming?

Gah! I can't believe it's really over! This is like postpartum depression!

I don't want to stop writing this author's note!

But I will, because I'm annoying you!

Thanks for reading!


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